


Chaos within

by oceansex



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (just a mention) - Freeform, Alcohol, Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Casual Sex, F/M, Hate Sex, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Season/Series 06, Season/Series 07, Vaginal Sex, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 23:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6928792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansex/pseuds/oceansex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Castiel-centric vignettes and encounters spread throughout seasons 4 to 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaos within

**Author's Note:**

> The initial idea for this fic can be attributed to this fantastic fan art : http://msdoomandgloom.tumblr.com/post/115921336850/megstiel-week-day-2-heaven-day-3-hell
> 
> But it kind of spiraled from there, other characters insisting on joining in...
> 
> Also, at some point, there is going to be some dialogue in a foreign language - just hover your mouse and you'll see the English translation. 
> 
> Again, this is only my second fic, my first time writing sex, English isn't my first language, and it's not been beta'ed, so uh, I hope it'll be a tolerable read for you guys!

**PROLOGUE**

For all it had been Fated, the scene before her only barely managed to retain her attention. Not even the presence of the First Demon registered as noteworthy, as far as she was concerned; but then, this was the unescapable truth of the role she held in this Universe. In this, her awareness was absolute – there was no death the circumstances of which would take her aback. It had been so always, and forever would.

The reaper who called herself Tessa was there of course, an unreadable expression on her fabricated face. Her and her kind would always feel drawn to the time and place of their charge’s passing, though those who’d sold their souls would be ushered into the afterlife by Hellhounds in their stead. Neither the reaper nor herself were visible to the brothers, or to Lilith. Such was the natural order of things; it would not do for her to be seen, not even by Tessa.  She sighed with impatience; this was but the natural conclusion of a lowly demon deal, and normally she would not have bothered witnessing it. But these were not ordinary circumstances. And so she watched as Lilith and the younger brother reached a stalemate, as the demon fled and left her host to crumble on the ground; as the boy kneeled down to hold his brother’s broken and empty body, blood painting the ground and cloying the air.

 It was done, then. She turned away, her mind moving to the more pressing matter of her next step. She crossed out the Righteous Man’s name from her book, vaguely annoyed by the knowledge that she would someday have to do it again. Bringing her head back up again, she saw the reaper had left the scene, presumably to care for her other charges. She lifted her gaze heavenwards. It was time for her to take her leave as well.

 

*******

 

 _It’s time to think for yourself_ , Anna’s words echo in Castiel’s mind, heavy with meaning. It’s advice he’d have had good use for earlier, he ponders, when Dean was still the Righteous Man and not much more to him. Forcing him to confront and interrogate his tormenter had been- _wrong_ , on a visceral level, and Castiel now wishes dearly he hadn’t pushed Dean to do it. The guilt eats at him inside still, when he thinks of how broken the man had been at the hospital, in more ways than one.

So think for himself Castiel does, speaking out and calling Dean’s name before the man can get too far away, to provide him with the information he needs in the most covert manner he can think of. He wants to help him - but knows his every move is being watched, and has been since the Alastair incident.

“If anything threatens a prophet - anything at all - an archangel will appear to destroy that threat. Archangels are fierce; they’re _absolute._ They’re Heaven’s most terrifying weapon. “ Castiel tries to convey through his eyes what he cannot afford to with speech.

He sees the instant Dean understands what the angel has just done for him, gratitude softening his gaze as he thanks him. Castiel feels a strange form of happiness bloom inside himself as he watches the man walk away. He has done _right_ , can feel it to his core. He tries no to think of what it means, implies, that doing so goes directly against Heaven’s orders.

He turns on his heels to make his own exit, report and meet with Zachariah- but then a tall, slim figure is before him, leaning back against a tree, distinctly displeased, if her expression is anything to go by.

 

“Atropos” he greets curtly, cautiously. It has been some time since they last saw each other.

 

“Castiel. What exactly was _that?”_ her voice is deceptively soft as she tilts her head, having quite clearly been witness to the entire exchange. Not fooled in the slightest by the angel’s roundabout approach to disclosing sensitive information, the disapproval is plain on her face.

 

“You _know_ I have to ensure Dean feels some degree of loyalty to me, or else I won’t be able to steer him towards fulfilling his role.” Castiel replies, walking a thin line, just barely skirting the matter of his personal investment.

 

They’ve known each other for a long, long time, met over the course of their recurring, if infrequent, trysts. Castiel cannot fathom why one of the three Fates would take a liking to him in particular, a Seraph among countless others - he and Atropos never discuss such things in their time together. The matter isn’t of any particular concern to him, either - they’ve been intimate, but never loving.

 

 “Yes, I can see how that is necessary.” The mockery in her tone is clear. “Still, Castiel, if I were you? I’d be more careful about your tendency to favor the boy’s wishes over those of Heaven. You never know who might be listening.”

 

Her smile is cool, the threat unsubtle and as direct as they come. Atropos is not a force to be trifled with - her station so far above that of an angel, they are laughably weak creatures to her.

 

Against all caution, Castiel stalks nearer, and hisses to her face. “Do _not_ doubt where my loyalties lie. You’ve known me for eons, Atropos - when have I _ever_ been anything but the sharp blade Heaven needed?”

 

She pretends to consider his point for a moment, before answering. “Fair enough. But you wouldn’t be the first angel with a flawless track record to stray from the path, Castiel. Look, I have eyes, “ her mouth angles in a smirk, and the atmosphere loses some of its tension “ and that Righteous Man is a fine specimen, I understand the temptation-“

 

He grunts at that, interrupts her with a kiss, mercifully and effectively cutting this conversation short. Instead, he focuses on their proximity; it is as heady a high as ever- that she could so easily undo him is a thrill beyond compare, and he loses himself in it.

 

 

Just a few days later, Castiel waits in the warehouse whose location he’d disclosed on that peaceful pier Dean was dreaming of. He is restless, the magnitude of what he is about to do weighting on him. Worse still, he has yet to decide on what his next course of action will be, what he will do when Dean knows the truth of Heaven’s machinations.

He startles, but isn’t at all surprised when he sees Heaven’s henchmen have reached him before Dean did. He is ready for flight- but they would only follow him, and so fleeing is not an option. He can count six angels, surrounding him and closing in. Castiel takes his blade out, prepared to fight, though he knows his odds of getting out of this are slim to none.

The first angel is on him then; he blocks Castiel’s blade with his own. Out of options, Castiel manages to hit his face with his left fist, kick him away next- but then one of the other angels tackles him to the floor, while two more hold him there, pressing their feet on his back. Dread overtakes him as he struggles, knowing what is to come next, but it’s hopeless, and soon enough he is dragged from his vessel, out and above, towards his punishment.

 

*******

Florence’s _Galleria dell'Accademia_ is, as Castiel should have expected, crawling with tourists. The old hardwood floors’ protests go unnoticed among their footsteps and chattering – not to mention the grating sound of tour guides spreading misinformation to the masses. His search, he acknowledges, will have to wait until nighttime. It’s probably for the best if it spares him any further exposure to blatantly romanticized and inaccurate retellings of historical events.

Walking through cobblestoned streets, Castiel sets out to find some _caffè_ where he can sit down, and gather his thoughts in the meantime. An insolent rivulet of sweat by his temple makes itself known; he wipes it away with perhaps more vigor than strictly necessary. Preferably a place that offers some reprieve from the sun, then. He can almost hear Dean’s voice, _Dude, seriously, lose the coat, you look ridiculous in this weather._ Unconcerned though Castiel is with his appearance, Dean’s opinion of his attire doesn’t seem quite as irrelevant as it usually does now that he has to contend with the sweltering heat of the afternoon sun.

It doesn’t take long, Florence being a popular travel destination, to find a place to wait the day out. Thankfully, the sunny weather prompts most of the tourists to sit outside, and Castiel is relieved as he sits down at a table inside, hidden from sun and sight alike. He finally removes his coat; elects to do away with the jacket as well, places them both on the chair’s backrest. Head in one hand, he fiddles with the drink and snack menu. None of the options appeal to him, but any cold beverage will do. It isn’t long until a waitress comes to him:

 

 _Buon giorno, vuole iniziare ad ordinare da bere?_ She asks brightly, but the dark circles under her eyes belie her energetic demeanor.

 

 _Io vorrei ordinare una Coca-Cola, per favore. _ Castiel replies. The drink seems popular enough, from what he’s seen. Surely it must be tolerable.

 

 _Una Coca-Cola, va bene. _ She says, writing his order down, before sauntering away promptly.

 

His drink comes soon enough, in a small bottle accompanied by a glass and ice cubes. The waitress fills his glass, cubes clinking, and deposits the check under the ashtray.

 

 _Grazie mille._ He says once she’s done.

 

 _Prego._ She smiles, and turns away to attend to other customers.

  

He takes a careful sip from his glass. The overwhelmingly sweet taste of his carbonated beverage bursts on his tongue; still, the drink is pleasantly refreshing as he swallows it down. The amount of sugar in it, he reflects, must be very near the upper limit of its solubility for the taste to be so strong. He doesn’t like it, but still ends up ordering another one later in the afternoon, waiting until the sun finally comes down.

 

 

The _Galleria_ feels like an entirely different place at night, the halls and corridors eerily empty. The place is much easier to navigate now, silent, paintings unobscured by throngs of tourists standing before them.  Every single step echoes against the walls and high ceilings, seemingly deafening to Castiel’s senses. He may have so far gone unnoticed, but any venture to Italy, where Christianity saturates the soil and permeates the air, is a risky endeavor at best; the longer he stays here, the higher the risk Heaven will find his trail.

Castiel walks through hallway after hallway, idly wondering how there can possibly be so many iterations of the _Madonna with child_ in a single museum.

Unfortunately, the item he seeks isn’t nearly as accessible; it likely isn’t even on display, he reasons. Going back on his steps, he searches for the storage room he passed by earlier. The door is locked, but Castiel hardly takes notice as he flies inside regardless. The paintings kept here are more obscure, some of them in need of restoration.

The closed space makes him nervous, though, and he is acutely aware of how ideal a location this room would be for an ambush. He draws the banishing sigil on the wall as a precaution, and the smell of Jimmy’s blood fills what little air is contained here. Feeling only marginally safer, Castiel then turns to the paintings where they are aligned, protected from light in their sheath, reaches for the first one-

 

“Castiel”

 

He turns abruptly, blade in hand, but then stills in surprise, and puts his weapon away. It isn’t Heaven that’s found him, after all.

 

“Atropos” he says gingerly. Recalling their last encounter - and the events that have since transpired - he knows this one will not be pleasant. He readies himself for flight, but immediately senses his wings won’t be of any use to him in his present company. _Of course_. Atropos smiles coolly at his realization.

 

“You know, Castiel, of all angels, I was surprised _you_ would decide to break ranks and move against Heaven’s Plan.”

 

Her voice is calm, but Castiel knows better and can see the tension underneath, although it’s contained for the time being.

 

“I don’t believe that. You turned me in.” His own anger is rising, and he struggles to rein it in; angels are no match against the Fates, and he - especially in his diminished condition - must tread carefully.

 

“…Yes, I suppose I did. ” She admits to the betrayal off-handedly, clearly unfazed he came to this conclusion.  “Are _you_ surprised? Better than anyone, Castiel, you _know_ what the Plan is to me, you know it’s my purpose, my life’s work, everything!” Her mask is falling apart now. “And you decided to rip it up _anyway._ ”

 

He doesn’t have an answer to that. It’s all true. Motivations notwithstanding, his rebellion against Heaven was a personal insult to her, they both know it.

 

Atropos isn’t done yet. Her voice turns a deceptively soothing tone. “It isn’t too late to do what is right. Return to Heaven’s ranks, play double agent, and I will personally ensure you are granted amnesty for your disobedience.”

 

“No”

 

“No?” Atropos comes a step closer “Do you realize what you are refusing, _who_ you are refusing?”

 

“Better than most. My answer is still the same. And your threats ring hollow, Atropos.” He knows he’s taking a risk here, a significant one, but goes on still.  “ _You_ reap angels, only you or Father Himself could’ve been responsible for my continued survival after Raphael’s punishment.”

 

Not that Castiel has any illusions as to whether or not Atropos spared his life. They might’ve been involved on and off over time, but he isn’t as short-sighted as to think their relationship would take precedence over her role as one of the Fates. Though if he can make her believe _he_ believes it….

 

“Are you so sure of yourself, Castiel?” She’s now inched into what Dean would call _his personal space_ , boxing him in against the wall. His hands instinctively jump to grasp at her wrists.

 

The air is charged with her wrath, suffocating, and Castiel knows, then, that his risk was miscalculated - and that the time he’d tried to earn himself has run out. He doesn’t answer, his mind spinning frantically to find an escape, any escape. He chances a glance to his left, where the blood is fresh still. His move doesn’t go unnoticed.

 

“Are you _joking_?” Atropos hisses “You know that thing won’t work on _me_ -“

 

“It will on me” he rasps, interrupting her before tightening his hold on her wrist and moving it to slam her hand against the sigil.

 

The last thing he sees before being ripped away is Atropos’ furious face.

 

 

***

 

_Maybe…maybe Joshua was lying._

_You son of a bitch. I believed in-_

Castiel’s bitterness is a sharp blade to his core; a rope around his throat. He can scarcely comprehend the weight of it, like nothing he’s felt before. Not even the confirmation that the Father had spared him certain death alleviates the resentment. Before, every trial seemed to be part of a greater plan, heavy with meaning and purpose, a sliver of comfort even through the pain. And upon returning, he’d been so _sure_ , so certain that his trust in his Father had been rewarded and that he had chosen right.

But now- his renewed existence feels worthless, a cruel joke. The faith that had been his driving force has been broken, and Castiel feels hollowed out inside. _When does it end? How do any of them stand it?_ _And yet still keep going?_ Perhaps- perhaps there is some merit to the coping mechanisms Dean favors; he can certainly see the appeal now, why one would be drawn to anything that could numb this feeling.

He’d have stayed with the brothers but- he cannot face them yet. He can’t stand to be met with Sam’s continued faith. He’s not ready to bear their disappointment, or worse, their kindness. Especially not Dean’s, Dean, who’d encouraged him to pursue his faith in spite of Raphael’s words, and known the same pain when it had been his own father who’d let him down. Dean, whose resolve he’d felt cracking along with his own.

 

He can’t stand it, any of it, needs to stay away for now.

 

So here he is, dead leaves twirling around his feet as he walks, in search of a place to spend the night. To add insult to injury, he _needs_ now, if he is to conserve his energy. Sleep, while not a strict necessity, is the only thing that allows him to replenish his Grace, not to full strength ( _never to full strength_ ), but enough that he retains the essentials: flight, angelic senses, imperviousness to human ailments. Healing himself becomes more draining each time, though, and he fears his other attributes will soon follow.

The brothers aren’t aware yet, that their ally and protector now sleeps just like they do, unconscious and vulnerable to his surroundings for hours at a time. Castiel isn’t sure how, _if,_ he should tell them. He doesn’t want to see their reaction; knows he won’t care for it.

He finds a motel, not too long after. It’s secluded enough that it’ll inevitably have unbooked rooms, beds no one will be needing. A quick glance at the register is all Castiel needs before he finds himself standing in a dim room. The bedcover is dusty and the wallpaper is a faded green color. Just a no-name motel like any other.

He locks the door and sits on the thin mattress, elbows on knees, head in his hands. His breath is strained and irregular, dry eyes burning. He’s raking his fingers through his hair, he realizes, and tries to calm down, to no avail. He can’t bring himself to move, much less lie down. How can he sleep like this, with nothing to distract- television is his usual method, but it won’t be enough- all he wants is a merciful few moments of unconsciousness, yet he has no way to achieve that-

After a time - _one hour and thirty-seven minutes_ , his brain chimes in uselessly, there _is_ a clock on the nightstand - Castiel gives up; his inner unrest won’t relent so soon, so easily, and pursuing sleep would be an exercise in futility.

He heads towards the moldy bathroom, lets the water run until the it’s cold enough, and splashes some on his face. It feels refreshing, if nothing else. When he looks up, _his_ face- it looks exhausted, as if sleep were a physiological need, and his eyes are red, though he hasn’t spilt a tear. The image he sees is that of an all-around defeated man, nothing to hint at the angel beneath. He looks away, before his musings can turn to his ever-diminishing state, and starts to head back into the bedroom. As soon as he faces the door, though, he can feel something is amiss, that smell-

 He jumps to the left as soon as he crosses the threshold, just in time to avoid the rising flames ( _though his right sock is singed at the toes_ he notes absurdly). Castiel rises to his knees, then stands up, looking around through narrowed eyes. The oil circle burns empty before him, a familiar figure standing on the other side of it.

 

A confident smirk paints Meg’s features, as if she hadn’t just failed to put holy fire between an angel and herself. “Hi, Clarence. Not coming easy, are we?”

 

Castiel doesn’t have to recognize what movie or other form of popular media _Clarence_ originates from to know the moniker is intended to mock him. He doesn’t much care for it.

 

“What are you doing here?” He has an idea, but he still asks, his tone wary. _Careless, not to ward against demons as well as angels,_ he thinks to himself. He won’t be making the mistake again.

 

“See, my Daddy? He doesn’t like it when one of the pets he captured runs away. So I thought I’d bring it back.”

 

She oozes nonchalance, but Castiel knows Lucifer well enough to surmise his escape in Carthage must’ve cost Meg dearly.

 

“I’m sure you did” He says drily - can’t resist the easy taunt; his restlessness now has a focus, and he throws himself into it wholly. “Your _Daddy_ isn’t renowned for his lenience”

 

She bristles at this, his words obviously hitting their mark. “Aww, wanna swap sob stories?” Her tone remains mocking still. “What I hear about _your_ daddy issues would send the damn Winchesters sobbing into Mommy’s skirts - if she were still alive, of course.”

 

Castiel doesn’t grace her with a response, levels her with a glare.

 

“Anyway, you can badmouth my Father all you want, angel, just remember, _he_ at least acknowledges my existence-“ She reads him too well; he doesn’t like it “- _and_ has faith in my ability to fetch little old you” She continues, cocking her head, almost playful. Her hands are in her pockets as she advances towards him, walking around the flames.

 

“And how do you plan on accomplishing that? “ He gives the ring of fire a slight nod, then continues. “Lucifer knows no faith, much less for an abomination such as you.” He says, straining not to show how absurd the notion seems to him.

 

A slight smirk must make its way onto his face, though, because she blinks black once before giving him a gleeful smile in answer.

 

“You know, as much as I’ve enjoyed all the sweet-talking, I think the time for flirting is past” She moves closer, a glint in her eyes. “Now, how about you be a good boy, and do what I say, m’kay?”

 

She moves fast then, but not fast enough; Castiel stops her as she launches herself at him, holding a pair of warded handcuffs. With one hand, he wrestles the restraints from her and throws the bindings into the holy fire, feels their power die as the flames lick at them.

 

“Did you honestly think you could be quicker than an angel?” He growls, face bending down close to loom at hers. He can see sweat beading at her hairline, and feels his own trickling down his spine.

 

He’s holding both of her wrists behind her back, now, but for some reason, she isn’t trying to move away, pressing her body nearer instead. The fire, somehow, is making him even more acutely aware of their closeness. She must be too, he realizes, when she releases a thick breath, moving her gaze down to his lips. Castiel remembers Carthage all too well, and had, in fact, used this very feeling to his advantage-

 

Meg laughs, abruptly cutting through the tension.

 

“Well Clarence, if I didn’t know better, I’d almost say you were a romantic” she quips.

 

He only tightens his hold on her wrists; she must be in pain but she smiles nonetheless. “Or maybe you like it rough? It’s always the quiet ones…” She mouths the words into the hollow of his throat - the only expanse of skin she can reach at the moment - and Castiel can tell then, what she plans to do.

 

He finds that he doesn’t mind as much as he should.

 

He spins them around and pushes her against the wall. “I think” he rasps, “that you should stop talking” before kissing her full on the mouth.

 

Meg stands perfectly still for an instant - despite all her teasing, she clearly wasn’t expecting him to take the first step, Castiel realizes. He takes full advantage of it, pins her with one hand on her hip, the other grabbing at her hair. She catches up though, presses herself up against him, slides a thigh to rub between his, and his knees almost go weak at the friction. Soon, his tongue licks at her lips, and she opens eagerly, her mouth wet and hungry under his.

 

Her hands are free to roam, now, and she moves them all over, opening and grabbing at his shirt, pulling it out of his pants to get at the skin underneath. Her palms slide in the sweat at his lower back, but she doesn’t seem to mind, emits a low moan when Castiel leaves her lips wet and shiny to suck at her throat instead. The sound vibrates against his mouth, and this is- excellently, excruciatingly distracting.

 

One of her hands moves up to tangle in his hair, and it’s Castiel’s turn to release a low noise against her skin. They separate briefly, so that he can remove her shirt, and then his mouth is on her again, moving lower still. He sucks at one breast as his hand teases the other, and she lets out a gasp, her hands tightening on him, pressing his head against her.

 

They’re both panting for air they don’t need, when Castiel begins making short work of her jeans, undoing the button and zipping down the fly, quick, quicker, as if to outrun his thoughts. She helps him along, and soon enough, pants and underwear alike are lying on the floor, one of her legs thrown over his shoulder. He moves his hand down where she’s wet, and Meg thuds her head back against the wall at that. When Castiel’s mouth follows his hand, she can’t stop herself, though.

 

“Fuck, Clarence, who knew angels were so dir-“

 

He retaliates by jabbing long fingers harder inside her, effectively cutting her off; it’s all she can do to whimper and to hold on to his hair, pushing down on his face as she comes, her taste sharp on his tongue. He rises up and kisses her so she can taste herself, pressing his erection against her thigh.

 

“It does seem like you were quicker than me after all” he says dreamily, as if pondering the matter.

 

“Don’t be so smug, angel, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Meg drawls as she pushes him towards the dusty motel bed. He lets her have the illusion of strength, and falls back on the springy mattress, a calculated look of disinterested on his face.

She wastes no time pulling his zipper down, and swallows his cock down greedily. Castiel falls back onto his elbows, lost in the wet heat of her mouth for a few moments, but determined not to come yet, not so soon. He draws himself back up, and pulls her off his length by her dark hair. Her smirk is shiny with wetness as she moves forward on her knees.

 

“Ever had someone ride you, Clarence?” She asks breathily.

 

Not waiting for an answer, she sinks down onto him, and they both moan at the sensation of it, unmoving for a brief instant. They start moving together, then - slow, fast, faster as they find their rhythm, each thrust just shy of painful as he holds her hips tight, _tight_ with his wide hands.

His mouth is at her throat, tracing the places he kissed before, leaving bites behind, and her hands drag nails down his back. He can feel her getting close again - starting to clench irregularly - so he moves his fingers to rub at her, until she comes once more, tightening like a vice around him, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He follows her over the edge just moments later, muffling a broken moan against her skin. His face is still hidden in her neck as they pant together, both trying to recover their breath.

Meg lifts herself off his lap and flops down on the bed, lying on her back as she looks at him with a strange sort of curiosity. Castiel hardly takes notice as he sits up, staring into nothing, trying not to think about what he just did - about anything. He shakes himself, buttons his shirt back up, and starts looking around for his shoes and coat.

 

“Love them and leave ‘em, Clarence? I would’ve figured you’d be the cuddling type, but I guess not, huh?”

 

He glares at her. “If you ever try to trap me again” he threatens. “I will _annihilate_ you .”

 

She arches her eyebrows, falsely surprised. “Hey, that _hurts._ It’s as if you don’t like me or something.”

 

He doesn’t dignify the mockery with an answer; once fully dressed, he leaves the motel - and the demon - behind in a wingbeat.

 

 

The air outside is cold and crisp, a welcome change to the motel room and its burning ring of fire. He’d thought- but he should hardly be surprised- that sex as a distraction would’ve been more effective, more durable - but it isn’t. If anything, Castiel isn’t better off, he’s _worse_ , can now add shame to the burdens he’d been trying to escape. A _demon_ , and this one in particular - if Castiel still believed in God, he’d beg for forgiveness.

As it is, he just keeps walking, trying to focus on the sounds of rustling leaves, the cold autumn wind, anything but his own thoughts. For the first time, he finds himself truly envious of humans’ vulnerability to psychotropic substances, wishes he shared this particular flaw…and then realizes that, given his declining condition, he actually _might_ -

 The hour is late, but when he happens upon a liquor store - _Healthy Spirits,_ he almost snorts at the name - that is still open, Castiel goes through the door, and doesn’t come back out again until much, much later.

 

***

 

Castiel hadn’t exaggerated when he’d told the brothers his efforts in the war were not going well. If anything, it was a major understatement. He hasn’t found the weapons of Heaven yet - or a way to access Purgatory’s souls, a plan he is still wary of and would dismiss if he had better options. Devising strategies and tactics to compensate for his army’s weaknesses in the face of Raphael’s larger forces is exhausting - and he knows he is not gaining ground, only stalling the end. Worse still, morale is low among his soldiers, and he cannot afford to let his own faltering resolve show.

 

Perhaps that is the reason he finds himself here, in another run-down motel among countless others, lying on his stomach and slowly catching his breath alongside Meg. They are both covered in cooling sweat, naked in the cold air of the room. Though by now Castiel is beyond fooling himself that sex will improve his mood, it is an effective, if supremely transient, form of stress relief. Habits die hard, as they say, and this particular vice of his has clung to him even after his return to full angelhood, a Seraph restored anew.

Meg has been a gleeful enabler, not seeming to mind in the slightest the first time, or the next, or those after. They’re both faithless now, but find each other’s company a suitable outlet to their restlessness. Though theirs is the most regular relationship - if it can be called that - Castiel has had, they both know she isn’t the only one he’s sought out. There have been others - anonymous men and women - the angel has shared himself with, if only to forget for a time.

He knows it’s not only the war he’s hiding from in those moments, but himself as well - wonders for a moment, what it would be like, to be intimate with someone he truly cares for. The idea elicits as much anguish as it does longing - Atropos, or Meg, he could stand to lose, or even end himself if need be; they rarely occupy his thoughts when he isn’t with them. He cannot fathom what would become of him should he involve himself with someone whose life and death could consume his mind. Such a distraction - it would be his undoing in this war. It’s probably best, then, to steer clear altogether, like he avoids the brothers - Dean especially.

 

His train of thought is interrupted before it can go much further when Meg trails her fingers along his back, and breaks the silence.

 

“You know, Clarence, I’ve been wondering” She pauses for dramatic effect, as he’s found she is prone to. “That stint you pulled, getting us into Crowley’s compound, awfully easy, wasn’t it?” It isn’t the first time she’s hinted at this, and Castiel is inclined to think it won’t be the last.

 

“Is that so?” he says dourly, giving away nothing.

 

“In fact,” she continues, paying him no heed, “I’d say it’s almost as if you knew the place like the back of your hand, any potential spells included.”

 

“And _I_ ’d say it’s almost as if you’ve forgotten I _do_ have abilities and senses that you don’t.” Castiel knows his retort is weak; he moves towards her, attempts to silence her with his mouth - but she grabs the hair at the back of his head and keeps him just an inch away.

 

“Now, now, Clarence, I know you have the stamina, but see” she smiles “this evasion tactic of yours is getting old. Not that I haven’t been enjoying it, but how about you give me some truth for once?”

 

He gives her a baleful look, but relents, falling onto his back, and exhales slowly. By now, his alliance with Crowley is all but an open secret to those who know what to look for.

 

“Are you surprised? Crowley is no fool; he knows that once this war ends, whoever emerges as the victor will be a threat to him and his reign over Hades. It is in his interest to secure an alliance so that his position may remain secure once this is all over. And it is in mine to ensure Hell doesn’t join Raphael in his efforts to defeat me.”

 

He is careful to avoid mentioning anything that might hint at their pursuit of Purgatory - that piece of information is too valuable to waste. Meg isn’t so easily led astray, though.

 

“Mhh-hhhm. And what is it that you two provide for each other I wonder? Please tell me it doesn’t involve doing the nasty - that’d be a new low even for you, Clarence” she drones on.

 

“No sex is involved,” he sighs, rolling his eyes “it’s merely a strategic alliance. Don’t waste your energy worrying about Crowley” Meg doesn’t reply, raises her eyebrows with a distinctly unimpressed look on her face, making it obvious what she thinks.

 

Castiel sits up, intent on leaving - as much to put an end to this conversation as to return to the urgent matter of the war.

 

“You would do well to focus on your continued survival instead.” he intones gravely, a threat in more ways than one, before flying away and up.

 

***

 

The _Titanic_ lies cold at the bottom of the ocean once more; the Harvelle women dead still- again. Castiel’s despair and frustration are mounting into anger. Were he human he would be shaking. After securing the stolen weapons, he’d been hoping to do away with Crowley, focus his efforts in Heaven without being burdened with this vermin any further. King of Hell he may be; without Castiel’s ( _or any angel,_ his mind supplies unhelpfully _)_ assistance, the demon doesn’t stand a chance at prising open the doors to Purgatory. As it is, Castiel will have to contend with him; he desperately clings to the notion that the weapons may be enough, that he will not have to defile himself with soul magic. That hope eludes him though, sliding away as surely as sand through his fingers.

The brothers may be safe and sound - for now - but his relief is a weak, pitiful thing.   Should Raphael defeat him in this war, an eminently plausible outcome, then their deaths ( _or worse_ he tries not to think) will promptly follow his own, of that he has no doubt. Atropos threatening to involve Clotho and Lachesis as well - his situation is now even more precarious, rests on the edge of a blade. The ire of the three Fates is but one more item to the long list of problems he cannot afford to bring onto himself.

 

Still, after his brief talk with Sam and Dean, Castiel goes to her, an idea half-formed in his mind. Risky, perhaps, but not enough that his life would be forfeit, he doesn’t think. Atropos hasn’t gone far, or bothered hiding herself from him, as if she were expecting him. She probably is, he reasons. They’ve been coming together and apart in cycles for a long, long time. He finds her in an empty warehouse, grey walls closing in around them. Small or otherwise- all _buildings_ feel like cages to Castiel.

 

“Please tell me you’ve not come here to gloat.” Her voice is still sharp with resentment, and she narrows her eyes at him, expression pinched.

 

To anyone else, the words would come across as insecure but Castiel knows well enough to understand he is the one being ridiculed here.

 

“No. I came to talk.” He keeps his voice steady.

 

“About what? I think I made myself clear-“

 

He interrupts her: “You complained about the chaos currently sweeping through Heaven, and in the same breath congratulated yourself for _not_ interceding. “

 

“You can’t seriously be implying I should fight by your side.” She huffs with disdain.

 

“Why not? Raphael’s victory would render you even more obsolete than you already are.” He states plainly.

 

He knows, abstractly, that this is not the most diplomatic way to phrase the sentence, but at this point any false politeness would be likely to anger her more than anything else.

 

“ _That’_ s your argument? You really hope this is going to pull me into the mess you created? This war is not mine, Castiel! You started it, _you_ deal with it” Her eyebrows pull up, and she seems thoroughly unimpressed.

 

He cannot fault her for it. This is hardly the best thinking he’s capable of. He has to try, though.

 

“I know you, Atropos. The world may be chaos now, but after Raphael is done with it, it’ll be utterly empty _,_ and you - you’ll be unbearably _bored._ ”

 

Startlingly, she laughs out loud. “People truly don’t give you enough credit; Uriel had nothing on you.” She pauses to draw a breath. “I’m _touched_ , really, Castiel, but no.”

 

She stalks nearer, slowly backing him against the wall. Before he can speak, she continues, seemingly intent on telling him exactly what she thinks of his reasoning.

 

“You truly must be desperate, to come to me with such a ridiculous idea. Let me guess, those weapons don’t make you a match for Raphael, do they? I could’ve told you that, you know.” She’s talking right into his face now, smiling smugly at his predicament. “I suggest you don’t try anything like the _Titanic_ again; it wouldn’t end well.”

 

She falls silent then, and he is reminded of Florence, but the atmosphere is different now. Though he is no more a threat to her now than he was then, the tone somehow comes off as playful more than menacing.

 

“I did as you asked, and you got what you wanted. I _suggest_ you stop talking.” he taunts, recklessly, he knows - he’s quite literally courting death, yet cannot bring himself to care.

 

“Oh, you will.” She smirks, and gets closer still.

 

 

 

Later, he calls for Balthazar; they need to plan their next steps - before he can start talking, though, Balthazar frowns his nose as he looks him up and down.

 

“You reek of sex. Your hair bears a more striking than usual resemblance to a bird’s nest. And is that a hickey? You _didn’t._ ”

 

Castiel remains silent.

 

“You did! I thought you two were done after you decided to play for Winchester’s team?” The other angel’s voice drips thick through his smug smile.

 

“We _are_ done” he says sourly, not interested in discussing the irrelevant matter of his sporadic and transient dealings with Atropos.

 

“On-again, off-again so fast, then? That’s quite the turnaround time, even for you two, Cassie”

 

Castiel sends a withering glare his way.

 

Balthazar raises his hands, placating, expression easing up.

 

“I see, I see…alright, let’s get to the point, shall we?”

 

 

***

 

 

The souls are roiling inside him, their power a high unlike anything he’s ever known. He could Remake the world, Heaven, Hell, everything. But one thing at a time. After leaving Crowley’s lab painted in his and Raphael’s insides, he finds her where she’s been hiding. Smart. The place is run-down and moldy, covered in useless wards of all kinds. She’s afraid, he can tell, but hides it expertly.

 

“Hello, Meg.” His voice is steady, confident.

 

“Hey there, Clarence. So, tell me, what’s it like being hopped up on soul juice?”

 

“Outstanding.” His delivery is deadpan as ever. “Though that’s not what I’ve come to discuss”

 

“Oh?” she raises her eyebrows inquisitively. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of Your Highness’ company?”

 

“I have plans to restructure Hell that may be of interest to you.”

 

“I’m all ears, honey.” Her _interest_ is obviously piqued.

 

“Crowley is no longer a concern; but Hell still needs a leader, a proper one.”

 

Her eyes shine at the knowledge that the former king of Hell is dead. “So, who are you nominating for the job? Yourself?”

 

“You”

 

“Me?” She laughs out loud at that. “What’s the catch? What happened to the threat to my” she lowers her voice, a mockery of Castiel’s growl “ _continued survival?_ ”

 

“Crowley’s Hades is a pathetic thing, hardly fit to instill appropriate fear in anyone.” He says, thinking of the endless queue of people waiting in line, the bureaucratic hell the demon had been so proud of.

“ _You_ will remake it into what it was meant to be.” A beat of silence. “With a few conditions.”

 

“Of course.” She swallows with visible difficulty.

 

“You will not, under _any_ circumstances, open the Cage - Michael, and Lucifer especially are to remain contained always. And I will control the flow of souls. Your crossroads demons will refuse any deal made for righteous reasons. I shall not stand for the torment of innocent souls acting on desperation. “

 

Meg opens her mouth as if to retort, but wisely thinks better of it.

 

“And believe me when I say I _will_ _know_ if you take such a soul against my explicit order. Is that _clear?_ ” 

 

“Crystal. When do I start?”

 

“You can consider yourself the reigning Queen of Hell as of right now. I’ve ensured no one downstairs is in any condition to stop your ascension to the throne.”

 

“Queen of Hell…I like the ring of that, a girl could get used to it…” she says, a sideways smile sliding onto her face. “What about you, now?  What are you going to do?”

 

“I shall return to Heaven and command the angels until such time as the Father sees fit to return.”

 

“It’s almost like we’re Queen and King, Clarence…isn’t that funny, after everything?” She says nonchalantly, clearly delighted by the day’s proceedings

 

“I am no king; merely the keeper of the throne until the Lord returns.” 

 

“So, does that make you my consort?” She drawls, obviously gleeful at the prospect.

 

“If it pleases you to see it this way.”

 

His smile gives nothing away; he has no intention of subordinating himself to her as the title would entail. He wouldn’t object, however, to some of the activities it implies.

 

“You will report to me in due time.” He intones, before she can react. “I shall now take my leave.”  He is gone in the next instant.

 

 

 

There is much that remains to be done on Earth and in Heaven alike, and his work is barely begun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> For those who have been wondering: Atropos doesn't know about Castiel's multiple reconditionings by Naomi, which is why she thinks Castiel's track record is perfect.
> 
> Also, in case you were puzzled as to how Cas would pay for that Coke considering all he'd have is US$ pocket change: he stole Euro coins from the fountains :)


End file.
